


Fire and Ash To Be

by Zilentdreamer



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Dragons, Fear, Gen, POV Animal, instincts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-10
Updated: 2012-10-10
Packaged: 2017-11-16 00:25:44
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,832
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/533440
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Zilentdreamer/pseuds/Zilentdreamer
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The first trace she catches on the wind is faint, bitter salt cast over the cloying sweetness of flowers long past their bloom.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Fire and Ash To Be

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this piece in my creative writing class. The assignment was to write from the perspective of a lesser character in a movie, poem, song, etc. Fanfiction basically. I chose to write from the POV of the Hungarian Horntail that Harry faces off with in the Tri-Wizard tournament, the book version, not the movie one...(which was dumb)

They come in the clear-cold of night.

The first trace she catches on the wind is faint, bitter salt cast over the cloying sweetness of flowers long past their bloom. Nothing urgent, a flex of wind past the cave she chose to house her clutch, whistling its lively tune through the cracks. 

Claws scratch against rock in empty echoes as she twists, the bulk of her body wedged between ageless stone. Eggs baked in the heat of her body have just begun to harden, small impressions of shape beneath her belly, calming even as they stir a slow growing wariness, a solitary life now full to the brim. Her young, fire and ash to be, small fires, potential waiting to spread its wings.

The scent is stronger when the wind carries it in on another whistle-shriek of sound, salt and dying flowers, snap-twist of wary approach just shy of fear. She lifts her head and stares at the narrow mouth of the cave, wisps of smoke escaping from between jagged teeth. A rumble starts in the low chamber of her throat, heat pulsing through her lungs, a stab of anger-fear-rage that makes the back of her mouth flare with fire to be.

Bitter salt on flowers are known to her, small creatures that sting and bite, come in swarms that carry the sweet scent of magic. It makes her spines rattle, sweet where there should be ash, glitter where there should be raging fire. Nothing like her kind, but, close, even as they lack scales, wings, spines, everything that should be. Not dragon but....heart-of-dragon. 

She lowers her head over the eggs peaking out beneath her forearms, noses one with the hard tip of her snout. Heat washes out of her mouth, scent of fire, magic, dam. The tip of her tongue flicks against the closest hard shell. Beneath the hard shell the tiniest vibrations reveal the flame within.

Rock scrapes together outside the cave. Her head snaps around, a low warning rumble vibrating across her scales and into the stone. The sounds stop, the silence growing, before the whisper-clicks start, small noises that are the chittering of rodents.

She snarls, claws gouging into stone, her tail slamming against the cave wall. Dust and pebbles shower across her back and the folded expanse of her wings, the dry slide a hissing counter point to her grumbling snarl. 

They are close, closer then they have ever dared to come before, magic swelling beyond the cave. It hums against her scales, between the cracks down to where her bones throb with heat and life. Heart-of-dragons do not care that she has staked her claim on this cave, cannot read the message she has carved into stone with claws and spines, her scent of fire and brimstone and death to all who come near. 

She snarls when magic creeps through the cave entrance, swirling, false wind bringing with it tired limbs, warm-safe-hollow, let head sag just so, eyes fall closed. She fights it, claws piercing rock, the hard slap of her wings against the cave wall, her tail thrashing. Fire swells up her throat and curls against the roof of her mouth before streaming out in a wild burst. She follows the fire, does not fear what is hers to own, will not let these heart-of-dragons near her young, her fire and ash to be.

Her head clears the cave, bursting through the lingering swell of fire. She shrieks at the sight of the interlopers, a high, keening knife of sound that leaves the air humming where it touches her scales. She lunges for the closest, a flash of color, the bitter sweet scent of magic and prey.

Pain explodes in her eyes, the suddenness of it snapping her head around, wings slapping the air. Her tail whips around and smashes through rock. Something screams and the scent of fresh blood is heavy, warm, draws her lips back from her teeth in a satisfied hiss in spite of the pain.

She cannot see but she can smell them, hear their strange calls as they scurry around her. More flame pours from her mouth, her eyes throbbing, making her twist and thrash as she tries to escape, to get away but also to hurt, to protect the mouth of the cave tucked behind her. The air swells, heavy and thick with magic yet to come, her flaming snarl spilling sulfur and brimstone until there is nothing beyond pain, heat, fear, rage.

She is hit from all sides, explosions of power that are nothing like the clash of scales, no teeth or claws to fight, wings fluttering helplessly. The world fades as she falls, a high whine building as the fire dies in her throat.

When she wakes the pain is gone, replaced with a cold that seeps between her scales, licks at the fire of her heart. She smells the bitter-sharp brimstone and flame of other dragons, hears their roars and shrieks, is helpless to do anything but answer them. She snarls at them, the closest sun on rolling hills of green scales, pulls at that which holds her, sharp clicks that rest so very cold against her scales. Bitter salt on flowers are everywhere, crawling, soft creatures that watch her, smelling of magic and fear. 

The others are dams-to-be, dull scent of fire and ash to be muted by the shell lingering between them all. They shriek and call, want their young, to escape the cold. She claws the ground, pulls and thrashes, high keens that split the cold and send the bitter salt on flowers scurrying about her. She wants her young, can smell the dry curve of their shells if she lifts her head just so. They are close, so close but she cannot find them, cannot reach them. Sun on rolling hills of green snarls at her, and she snarls back, tail whipping around to puncture soft dirt with her spikes. 

Too many dams-to-be, poachers, death-bringers who do not want to share the world with her fire and ash to be. She wants to tear at their scales, drive them from this place of everlasting cold, protect her young if only she can find them. The crawling, chirping heart-of-dragons gather around her twisting, shrieking form, gathering power around them. She lunges but is brought up short, can only roar defiance as she is once more brought low, the cold dirt pressing against the thin scales along her jaw.

When she wakes the scent of bitter salt on flowers is overwhelming, a low thunder of noise coming from all directions. It makes her spines bristle, wings stretching as she rises, but before she stands she stops, a low croon of surprise as she smells the dry curve of fire and ash to be. She sweeps her head over the eggs, humming as she counts, each one dry and sharp but different, settles back into place when she finds none missing. There is one that is cold, not one of her fire and ash to be that she pushes away from the others, hisses at it before dismissing it. 

She hisses at the endless roar of sound, flame curling at the edges of her teeth when another scent catches her attention. Slewing her head around she sniffs the ground near her eggs, snarls when she smells other dragons. She moans, a low sound of pain, fear, terror, jerks her head back from the scent of fire and ash to be exposed to the world before time was right, the cloying scent of death. 

She curls tighter around her young, wings pressed tight to her back, spiked tail pushing her eggs closer to the soft heat of her belly. Bitter salt on flowers are all around, there is no where she can go, something heavy fastened around her neck, bruising the scales beneath her chin and crest of spines. She cannot fight, her searing breath will not reach from where she is crouched amongst them and she will not leave her young, not with the scent of egg-death lingering in the ground beneath her claws. 

Bitter salt on flowers deepens as one approaches, magic flexing in the air between them. She lowers her head over her clutch, growling a warning. Will not touch her young, not again, never, will burn and sear and crunch between her teeth before she lets another bitter salt on flower touch them. 

She cannot conceal a flicker of surprise when it is suddenly airborne, flying high overhead. She watches it, strange creature with no wings that manages to soar the sky, keeps her neck arched over her young as it soars straight back down. Her wings ache to spread, to follow this strange creature into the sky and rend it before it can touch her clutch but she stays crouched, will not be lured away. 

It flies back and forth, taunting, and she starts to growl, a low continuous sound but it will not stop, it will not leave her alone and the noise all around her is silent but not gone, bitter salt on flowers waiting in endless waves, watching. She spits fire at it, rumbles when it evades. Again it sweeps closer and she cannot help it, fury and fear bring her up on her hind legs to snap at it, fire gushing between her teeth. The creature dives beneath the swing of her claws and she lunges, shrieks her outrage before it is flying away, flashing sunlight on scales in its clutches.

She drops down and frantically noses her clutch, whines when none are missing, only the strange not-egg. Bitter salt on flowers approach and she snarls, does not try to stand, not when she can feel the magic building once more and everything goes dark.

When she wakes again she knows she is home, sprawled across the dark opening of her cave, can smell the lingering traces of her own fire and the mark of her claws around the opening as she warned others of her kind away. Inside she can smell the dry potential of fire and ash to be, her eggs once more tucked safely inside. She does not go inside immediately, sniffs the air for traces of bitter salt on flowers. Rearing up onto her hind legs she roars, wings spread wide, claws tearing the air, fire billowing from between her teeth until everything is fire and fury. She turns her fire on the ground around her, sears the scent of bitter salt on flowers away until nothing is left but her scent, her fire. 

Slipping inside the cave she nuzzles her clutch, exhales the heat of her breath over them until there is nothing of egg-scent, nothing to draw the interest of others who would think to find easy prey. Rumbling low in her throat she curls around them, facing the cave opening and the slice of daylight that lingers. She waits until her young tell her they are ready to be.


End file.
